


Prizes over Discovery (IV)

by Keiko Kirin (sakana17)



Series: Prizes over Discovery [4]
Category: Master and Commander (movie), Master and Commander - O'Brian
Genre: Age of Sail, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-05
Updated: 2004-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakana17/pseuds/Keiko%20Kirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to Thevetia for guidance.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Prizes over Discovery (IV)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Thevetia for guidance.

Jack watched Stephen's fingers move over the strings and his bow gliding, dipping, drawing back. The cello hummed a deep note then rose: up, up, soaring high to reach the point when Jack would join in, his bow flying over the violin faster: down, down, scratching to reach Stephen's solid tone. It did not always answer; it was a difficult descent -- but tonight Jack reached it and joined Stephen perfectly, and they proceeded together without hesitation. The great cabin was filled with the sinuous, interwoven curls of their music until the movement was complete.

"Oh, I say," Jack declared triumphantly, sitting down in the chair, his brow and cheeks wet, and picking up his glass of claret from the floor. He sipped it and raised it at Stephen, who smiled at him and carefully set his cello and bow aside. Outside the night was a velvet black, and the _Surprise_ rolled gently for they had cleared the Channel two days ago and were making a leisurely seven knots. While Jack mutely fingered the trickiest part of the movement, Stephen poured himself another glass of wine and stood at the table and looked through Jack's charts again.

"Are there lemurs in Mozambique, I wonder," he said. "I am with child to see a lemur." He sighed a little, sipping his wine, but there was no hint of rebuke in his voice. Jack had promised him Mozambique the previous year, when he had commanded the _Helen of Troy_. Unfortunately, they had never made it to Mozambique -- Jack's orders for rendezvous with the rest of the squadron had changed when they had stopped at Cape Town, and they had gone instead to Bombay, a city heavy with memories for both of them. Now, however, they were to attempt the treacherous strait alone after their voyage around the Cape of Good Hope.

Jack looked at Stephen with great affection. It was comforting to see him interested in his natural studies again, especially here and now: in the great cabin filled with their warmth and the memory of their music. After their recent adventures and Stephen's unhappy tasks ashore, finally things felt right and proper again, Jack thought. The _Surprise_ had restored them both. Stephen was more himself, despite his unusually reserved mood of late. But his reawakening showed in his face: the colour in his cheeks and lips, his eyes brightening, his manner more animated; Jack delighted in each subtlety and good omen.

Jack stood and gently lifted the charts from Stephen's fingers and held his hands, squeezing them. He smiled and kissed Stephen's neck. The scent of him stirred Jack's blood -- it had been so very long: since Spain. He touched his lips to Stephen's and found them unresisting, and the taste of him stirred more fire within. He slid his hands over Stephen's hips and under his waistcoat, carefully tugging one button free. Stephen made a soft noise and drew back slightly. Jack kissed his neck again and laughed softly into his ear, murmuring, "We have the rest of the watch, my dear," and undoing another button.

Stephen laid a hand on Jack's shoulder and sighed, pulling back. He touched Jack's hair and gave him a solemn, regretful look. Jack left the third button unmolested and lowered his hands: he knew Stephen's look very well. Had been seeing it since they had met in Portsmouth and all during the refitting. Jack had thought it was mere caution -- Stephen was very particular about where they should meet -- but now it hinted of disinclination, which Jack could not understand.

"I am sorry, my love," said Stephen, stepping back to button his waistcoat. He picked up his wine glass and stared into it before taking a sip.

Jack paced to the stern windows and looked out at the black night, the faint glow of the _Surprise_'s wake just visible. When he had composed himself, mastered his confusion and aching frustration and disappointment, he turned and said with as much good humour as he could muster, "It don't signify, not in the least, you know. Shall we try the C major again?"

Stephen turned away with a small frown, looking so bleak that Jack held his breath for a moment, uncomprehending. Then Stephen stared at the table, rested his outspread fingertips upon it, and said slowly, "Jack, I should have told you before. I have been on a course of physic which leaves me rather... reduced. In appetites, I should say." He glanced at Jack: a dark, somewhat furtively apologetic glance.

"Are you ill, my dear?" Jack asked with genuine worry. "Do you need rest? Should you like to move into the great cabin?"

"No," said Stephen quietly. "I need nothing but your patience, for the moment."

"Ah." Jack clasped his hands behind his back as his confusion returned. "Just so, just so."

Stephen came close and touched Jack's cheek, smiling sadly. "It is temporary. And no reflection on any change of heart, any diminishment of feeling."

Jack managed a smile in return. "Just so," he said again. He took Stephen's hand and kissed the palm.

Stephen pressed his fingertip to Jack's lips before drawing away, saying, "Goodnight, dear." His eyes were stormy winter seas -- changeable and unknowable. Jack watched him leave the cabin with a tense bewildered regret.

Alone, Jack picked up his violin and played a slow and sombre but melodious solo. He found the notes soothed him and calmed his mind, and the familiarity of placing his fingers on the strings and of guiding the bow made him quite easy, though the music was strangely hollow without the deep answer of the cello.

\-----

In his cabin below, Stephen was not as easy. He had not lied, but he had not been forthright about the course of physic. Though he did intend for the course to come to an end; already he had lowered his dose to one-hundred drops of laudanum. But here the progress of reduction had wavered, for he had not made any advance on one-hundred drops: it was the minimum he required for a restful, dreamless sleep.

It was not dreams which haunted him but memories. Diana: graceful, cross at him, full of spirit and courage. Confident in her beauty. The flash in her eyes. All marred by the sight of her on the arm of the dreadful, cruel Admiral Garrett in Bath. A low, vile man: how had she borne it? It had been his money: his talk of money, of his West Indies plantations. Money was a type of security for a woman like Diana, perhaps the only security, Stephen reflected as he counted out the drops for his nightly dose. No word of Diana had come before they had set sail.

Then the phantasm of Mrs Keneally: another beautiful woman, if such coldness could be called beauty. She had thought Stephen most entertaining, but of little consequence: her real objective had been Jack, but even then it was little more than a cruel game for her. Her eyes were a becoming soft brown: how they had darkened as she had laughed at her own cleverness and had told Stephen that he couldn't possibly be Diana Villiers's Maturin. It was quite impossible. Diana was so well connected, so admired and pursued by men of means, what could she want from a shabby little foreign doctor? No wonder he had been so wounded, and was that why he shared a bed with Aubrey? Was it near enough to sleep with a man who had slept with Diana? she had asked. But of course, the idiotic spying serving girl was mistaken, Mrs Keneally had continued: Jack Aubrey was the greatest whoremonger this side of the Atlantic. It mattered not, however, for the victory was in exposing him and undoing him, not in discovering some truth. Besides, she had said, were not men of that disposition very clever and discreet by nature? They had to be, to save their necks from the gallows, surely; and Aubrey was a simpleton, had not the least wit for sophisticated games, and no taste for complex pleasures.

Then Keneally again: staring at him in dumb, profound fury over the body of Garrett in a frosty, foggy park before dawn. Dark blood pooling as they spoke, as Stephen presented her with her fate -- a gift, for she was now safe with her dubious friends in Paris.

And finally, Sophie: before meeting Jack in Portsmouth, he had paid his respects in a short visit, repeatedly interrupted by Mrs Williams. Bittersweet: he loved Sophie dearly, and her simple kindness and sweet, worried face had brought a glimpse of beauty into the ugliness occupying his thoughts. She had told him to bring her husband back soon "without so many scars this time"; then, later, told him she cared not how many scars, so long as Jack was returned safely. She had looked a-glow as he left her: the bright morning sunlight was kind to her.

Stephen did not want to think on these troubled, conflicted memories. He yearned to escape into Jack's welcoming, warm embrace and find his rest there. But his mind cautioned against exchanging one narcotic for another while he still felt so unsettled. He swallowed his dose and greeted the heavy, thick, empty sleep it brought.

The routines of shipboard life soon consumed him. He had lost his assistant a day out in the Channel: the poor man had drowned after being tossed in a particularly rough sea. So Stephen was more than usually occupied with the preparation of common pills, draughts and unguents: the various forms of pox had begun to appear, and there was the expected number of landsmen who had fallen or forgotten to duck. None of them needed the trephine, much to the disappointment of the lower deck ghouls.

The gunroom was pleasant enough: Quinn, the Marine Captain, knew Stephen from the _Sophie_; Mr James, the purser, was amiable; Mr Munro, the master, was taciturn and elderly, but Jack respected him greatly; the second lieutenant, Mr Andrews, had been a midshipman on the _Franchise_ under Jack's good friend Heneage Dundas and came highly regarded; and Mr Mowett was first lieutenant, which pleased Stephen, for he liked Mr Mowett, a friendly and brave soul whose only apparent vice was poetry. Since leaving the Channel Mowett had been working on a poem describing the pursuit and capture of the _Acheron_: a commission for a gentleman's literary magazine. Upon learning that he was to be paid by the word, he endeavoured to make the poem an epic, and the gunroom was often treated to recitations of particular episodes and would offer up suggestions. As yet Mr Mowett had not found satisfactory rhymes for _Acheron_ and _Galapagos_.

Life settled into a pattern: patients, gunroom dinners, and musical evenings with Jack, who appeared to be happy with his ship and his men -- he had begun their gunnery exercises, which always heightened his spirits. Jack kissed Stephen sometimes, but very tenderly, and was quite patient and content. Stephen felt that soon, very soon, his own humours would be settled enough that he would sleep without his laudanum, still administered in one-hundred drops.

\-----

Jack was not, in fact, completely content. Chastity had never sat easily with him, but he had much practice in directing his hunger elsewhere: gunnery, swift sailing, food and wine. And although before he slept at night he would spend some minutes indulgently desiring Stephen, Jack believed that he was quite successful in controlling his animal spirits and disguising his longing.

His chief concern -- the source of the frown now darkening his face as he paced the quarterdeck -- was his midshipmen's berth. He was not quite happy with Mr Napier -- did not trust his smirks, and Jack had already warned him twice about having his hands in his pockets -- and he had grave misgivings about Mr Wilkins, a short, awkward lad the port admiral had insisted Jack take. The other youngsters -- Mr Fellowes and Mr Adams -- were so far inoffensive in their nervous, dumb state, but Jack could see the influence of Napier spreading. Was quite sure the three of them were going to twist Wilkins up in his hammock before long.

The wind had backed half a point, and pausing in his stride, Jack ordered the topsails trimmed, then paused to enjoy how perfectly and gracefully the _Surprise_ answered. Ten knots easily: very sweet sailing. He stood and admired her new masts, and his cares for Stephen, for the men, for the midshipmen's berth, and for a hundred other details were momentarily gone.

A horrific cracking thud pierced his reverie. He stared at the forecastle where several hands stood staring stupidly at a body on the deck. Jack and Mr Mowett hurried to the man, Jack shouting for the doctor. As they bent over him, Stephen appeared from the hatchway and joined them, touching the man's eyelids to close them. Jack stood up, frowning and shaken. The dead man was Joe Thomas, able seaman, a prime hand who had sailed with Jack several times. He looked up at the maintop. The seas were restless but not violent. There was no reason for this: an unlucky accident, a horrible waste of a human life.

In the midday with a squall looming ahead, he said a few words and read a comforting psalm as they sent poor Joe Thomas to the deep in his hammock, two round shot at his feet. Jack had been invited to dine with the gunroom that day, but little did he feel like it. He could not disappoint Mr Mowett, however, who would play the host. The squall touched and passed over them, soaking every hand taking in the sails and hiding the sun behind a sheet of grey.

The gunroom dinner was sedate. Stephen seemed more inwardly inclined than usual, and said very little. Jack endeavoured to be pleasant and witty, and although the officers laughed, it was not a hearty table. Mowett did his best, even reciting a few lines of his epic about the _Acheron_, but eventually fell back on simply passing the wine around again to lighten his guests' spirits. Only Mr Andrews seemed determined to stay cheerful, and he engaged Stephen in a conversation about the Galapagos: the wonders to be seen there, the remarkable appearance of the land itself.

"Are you a naturalist, Mr Andrews?" Jack asked during a lull.

"Oh no, sir." Mr Andrews flushed pink and glanced at Stephen. "That is to say, I fear I have not the mind for it. It must take prodigious skills of observation and intellect to sort one beetle from another."

He smiled politely at Stephen, who bowed his head in return and said, "You are too kind, sir. Sure, there are many kinds of intellect and observation, none greater than the next, I suspect. Take for instance your sailing of these mysterious vessels, these ships of yours--" Here Stephen smiled at Jack with a hint of self-satisfaction for his correct use of _ship_. "How, pray tell, does the captain know when to strike the topgallant or furl the mizzen sail? I have asked the captain repeatedly, desiring to understand the great nautical arts, but his answers, I am afraid, leave me as uncomprehending as a child. 'Wind,' says he, 'It is all wind,' and I dare say this is correct..."

Jack caught the gleam of amusement in Stephen's eyes, and he thought for a moment on how to counter with an appropriate jest, but he was overtaken by the rest of the table earnestly explaining to Stephen the foundations of naval science. Mr Andrews broke a ship's biscuit in half and used them as sails; Mr Munro drew on the cloth with wine to illustrate the points of the wind; even Mr Mowett, accustomed to Stephen's lubberly ways, was pleased to demonstrate the principles of masts and yards using his knife and fork. Jack sat back and smiled: he did not need to counter, for the poor doctor was trapped by his well-intentioned companions.

He was about to rescue Stephen by inquiring after the port when Mr Adams ran into the gunroom, crying, "Doctor, oh doctor, sir!" Seeing that the captain, the great man himself, was also there, he stopped abruptly and fell silent, staring with large round eyes.

"What is it, lad?" Jack asked severely, then regretted his tone when he saw the youngster flinch.

"It is Wilkins... Mr Wilkins, sir. And sir, may the doctor come immediately?"

Stephen rose, thanking Mr Mowett as he hurried out with Mr Adams. Jack considered accompanying him, but was unwilling to spoil the gunroom's hospitality. Besides, he reflected, his presence might only do harm: for whatever reason, the midshipmen were still too much in awe of him. All except Napier, he thought grimly. The rum lad.

Many hours after dinner, after another short squall which sent the _Surprise_ pitching and creaking until it had passed, Jack sat at the table in his cabin, writing a letter for Joe Thomas's family. He had sailed with the man enough to feel duty-bound to send some kind words to the widow and children. Could vaguely recall the widow standing on the docks as they sailed: a frowzy woman with greying red hair. After a single knock Stephen entered the cabin, as was usual for them, although sometimes Stephen forgot to knock.

"How is the boy?" Jack asked, finishing his signature with a short curl in the tail of the 'y'.

Stephen walked to the stern windows and picked up a sheet of music from the floor. He sat down on the bench and scanned the music. "I gave him a draught, and I believe he will recover by morning. There is no fever, no chill, just an agitation of the stomach and repeated evacuations... Jack," he said, his voice changing from a professional to a personal tone, "he is scared. Frightened almost out of his wits, and I could not discover why. He will not confide in me."

Jack folded up his letter, frowning. He left it on the table and stood, pacing. "Did he show signs of other distress?"

"No," Stephen said slowly, looking up at him. "What do you suspect?"

Jack shook his head, pacing another distance and back. "I cannot say; it is mere imaginings. But damme, Stephen, there is something not right in that midshipmen's berth. Poor Wilkins." He stood before Stephen but looked past him, out at the wake and the night softly lit by the moon: the sky had cleared. The comfort and rightness of being in his natural place -- on the _Surprise_ in perfect sailing with a good crew and with Stephen, of course, dear Stephen -- had deserted him for the moment. He felt a shadow lurking behind him: a sense of the untoward, a certain dread but for what he could not name.

It must have shown on his face. Stephen rose and touched his cheeks. "You are worried, my dear," he said quietly.

"No," said Jack. "It's not worry, but God love me, I don't know what it is." He placed his hands over Stephen's and held them: their warmth gave him comfort. "I was just writing to old Joe Thomas's widow. You remember him, don't you? He sailed with us in the _Sophie_ and the _Helen_. I don't even know if the poor woman can read, but I suppose she can find a parson to read it for her... What a damned thing to happen, Stephen. No sense in it. No reason for it. And it cast such a pall over the gunroom dinner. Poor William, playing host to such a bunch of wretches, including his captain. And now this business with Wilkins..." Jack sighed heavily, and Stephen wrapped him in his arms. Jack returned the embrace and held him tightly, for he needed Stephen's strength and quiet understanding and warmth. He needed to be held until his thoughts stopped spiralling into murky, unpleasant depths.

They embraced for a long, long time, and the rocking and swaying of the ship around them felt right again, felt natural again. Stephen caressed Jack's back, and Jack pressed his face against Stephen's shoulder and squeezed him in his arms. He felt Stephen's lips on his brow and when he lifted his head, Stephen kissed him slowly. A brief instant of surprise, wonder -- had Stephen's course of physic ended, at last? -- then joy, then something deeper and warmer than joy. They kissed again, and again, and pressed to each other.

"Stephen," Jack said in a low, apologetic voice, attempting to pull away but Stephen's arms held him. "It is nothing... Don't signify in the least... I am sorry, my dear..."

"Shhhh," said Stephen, silencing him with a kiss. He drew back slightly to look into Jack's eyes as his hands slid over Jack's hips and waist, and his fingers found the buttons of Jack's breeches and slowly unfastened them. He stroked Jack's belly as he pushed them down, and Jack took a deep breath.

"Dear..." he said, but said no more because Stephen had exposed him to the cool air, warmed only by Stephen's closeness, and Jack's entire body pounded with the beating of his heart.

Stephen glided his hands up Jack's sides, pushing his shirt up, and gave Jack a gentle, oddly amused smile which Jack had not the wits to decipher. He touched Stephen's lips and cheek and kissed him once again, just before Stephen sank before him. Sank low, lower, to his knees. Good God, Jack thought. Stephen was going to... He hadn't had this done since that bumboat girl in... Good God. Jack held his shirt with one hand and with the other rubbed shaking fingertips through Stephen's hair. A perfect stillness descended, despite the rocking of the ship. A perfect quiet over the creaks and groans of the ship. They were all connected, Jack thought: one living being. And as Stephen's lips and tongue touched him, startling him with their heat, down through the stillness and quiet came a voice, utterly clear: "Sail ho! On deck there: sail ho!"

\-----

It might have been comic, Stephen reflected. Bitterly comic for the supremely wretched timing, the unbelievably awful coincidence of chance. But it was not: the cry of a sail transformed Jack instantly -- well, almost instantly; Jack had dressed and thrown on his waistcoat in some small attempt at disguising his state and had stridden from the cabin before Stephen had risen from the floor.

The quarterdeck was crowded with officers. Stephen came up the ladder and noted that whatever state Jack had left him in, it had disappeared by now. Jack stood at the starboard rail with his night-glass, intently watching the dark sea. For his part, Stephen could not spot the sail, even when he borrowed Mr Mowett's glass, but he did not doubt it was there. Jack and the other officers were certain. They stood there watching for a quarter of an hour, two quarters, Jack quietly giving orders to the men -- Stephen felt the _Surprise_'s gradual turn -- and sometimes speaking to himself, wondering about that sail.

Then: "By God, that is the _Humanité_! Mr Simpkins, topsails, if you please. Bonden, dowse the lantern as soon as they are set." To himself, though Stephen heard it quite clearly and was certain the other officers had as well: "Has she spotted us, though?" Tense, tense minutes until the sails spread -- a jarring quake, then a wonderful exhilaration of wind and spray -- and the lantern was dowsed. The deck in darkness, but for the cruelly bright moon overhead.

"Mr Mowett, sir," a child's voice said somewhere behind Stephen -- it was Fellowes, a midshipman. "What ship is she, sir?"

"A damned hulking French bastard," one of the old hands growled, ignored by everyone on the quarterdeck as Mowett kindly but distractedly answered, "She is the _Humanité_, Mr Fellowes, a French man'o'war with sixty-four long thirty-two pounders." As everyone considered the _Surprise_'s twenty-four much smaller guns, the deck fell into silence.

Stephen watched the moonlit form of Jack raise and lower his glass again, look up at the ghostly sails, and join Bonden at the helm. There was a taut liveliness to Jack's manner -- Stephen did not doubt that Jack was already forming some plan to turn the hunter into the hunted -- a liveliness and a comforting determination which contrasted markedly with the Jack he had seen earlier in the great cabin. Stephen went below, sent Killick on deck with Jack's coffee, and retired to his own cabin and his waiting dose of laudanum.

Stephen woke late and followed the scent of coffee to Jack's cabin. Jack, in last night's clothes and this morning's hint of a beard, was sitting at his breakfast of mutton chops, hot burgoo, and toast. "There you are, Stephen," he greeted heartily, topping his toast with Sophie's best marmalade.

"You have not slept," observed Stephen, lifting the coffee to inhale its revitalising aroma.

"I dozed for a while before you came in," Jack said doggedly. Then he laughed softly and said, "We are making eleven knots and three fathoms, my dear. Eleven knots and three fathoms. And though it may be counting my eggs, I believe we may see twelve knots very shortly."

Stephen finished his mutton chop and second cup of coffee before saying, "We are still being pursued, I believe? We are running?"

"We are running," Jack said. "Swift and sure. Oh, how she races, Stephen! Dear old girl. You must go on deck. It is like riding the dolphin herself."

"I will, too," said Stephen, admiring the glint in Jack's eyes, the rosy colour in his cheeks, the natural jolly smile on his lips. "Though I am amazed to learn that you have ridden the dolphin herself, to make such a comparison. But tell me: are you not in the least concerned? As I understand it, our enemy is rather larger than the _Surprise_, and rather mightier. I mean only in respect to her guns, of course."

"Why, as to that, you are quite correct," Jack said, rising. "She is a fearsome beast to be sure. But a trifle slow, you will find. And if this wind holds--" He touched a ceiling beam as he said this. "If it holds, I do not doubt we will lose her presently. She can't mean to follow us all the way across the ocean."

But Jack was wrong. The wind did not hold. After a drenching, pounding, tossing squall, it backed to the north east, and the _Humanité_ gained while the Surprises were still clearing the minor catastrophes of wreckage from the storm. The sky was a roiling green-grey shielding them from the noon sun, but Jack reckoned it was just after noon when the _Humanité_ opened fire. The shots fell short, plunging into the angry sea, but it made the Frenchman's intentions clear enough. And so they raced.

Stephen saw very little of Jack in the next few days, and one of those times was to get him to sleep by any means: command, entreaty, scolds, threats. The thrill and certainty of the chase had left him: Jack looked weary and irritated. They were running for Brazil on a favourable wind, he told Stephen just before he dropped into his deep sleep, but he could not be certain of the doldrums.

Life aboard the _Surprise_ continued its normal routines, but there was less gaiety, less good humour and more sharp, snappish words: the oppressive shadow of the huge French ship was with them, even when she could not be seen. For the Surprises who remembered the _Acheron_, there was less outright fear: they had every confidence in Lucky Jack Aubrey and believed he could take a French two-decker with a fishing boat, aye, and with one hand tied behind his back. The gunroom was not as sanguine, and Stephen noticed that Mr Mowett had ceased working on his epic poem and spent his few moments of leisure cleaning his pistols and polishing his sabre.

Into the middle of this great chase, of this time of apprehension and grim determination: an absurd, shocking incident. Stephen, on his way up to enjoy the bracing air and light rain while he may, overheard Jack's voice roaring from the great cabin: "Do you not know we are being pursued by a French sixty-four, Mr Napier? You dare approach me with this at this time?" Somewhat lower, but still loud: "Very well."

Stephen paused on the ladder and watched Napier leave the cabin, hurrying but without the proper air of someone who has just had his head bitten off by a lion. Indeed, the young gentleman stuffed his hands in his pockets the minute he was out of the cabin, and Stephen thought he detected a slight smirk on his face. Entering Jack's cabin, Stephen closed the door and was confronted by the sight of Jack sitting at the table with his head in his hands. Stephen paused before approaching and laying his hand upon Jack's shoulder as he sat down beside him.

Jack combed his fingers through the loose locks of his hair and said, "That boy..." He stopped, lowered his hands, and looked at Stephen. "This is a vile, damned business." His look of anger -- total, devastating anger -- alarmed Stephen, and he rubbed Jack's shoulder softly, hoping to calm him. Jack was too restless; he stood up and paced the length of the table.

"He has just reported Mr Wilkins to me. For sodomy." He stopped, gave Stephen a bleak, helpless look, then resumed his pacing. "It must be such stuff, you know. Wilkins is barely old enough..." Jack rubbed the back of his neck and turned on his heel. "But now I must go through with the whole damned business, of course. Wilkins must be questioned... He will cry; I know he will cry, guilty or not. The lamb must be examined, I suppose."

"The lamb?" cried Stephen.

"Yes, yes," Jack said, sitting heavily in his chair. "He is meant to have buggered the lamb the gunroom's ewe produced past Brest. What nonsense. Lord, I hope it is nonsense." He looked at Stephen and some of the anger returned to his face. "You should have heard that wretch Napier, prating on about Wilkins like a proper little blue-light. Said he had caught Wilkins in the sin of Omen any number of times. What can he have meant by that? That Wilkins is some kind of heathen?"

"I believe he meant the sin of Onan," said Stephen, and Jack said after a slight pause: "Oh." Then blushed in such an endearing manner that Stephen would have laughed and kissed him were the situation not so grave. Even so, from a curious lightness Stephen asked, "Is the lamb a boy lamb or a girl lamb?"

Jack frowned at him. "This is not a moment for jests, Stephen. What difference would it make?"

"Presumably the sin is greater if the lamb is a boy?" said Stephen, feeling contrarily angry now, for the whole absurd horror of it was before him: the slaughter of the lamb; the midshipmen's berth forced to eat the tainted animal; Wilkins questioned, too scared to defend himself or rebut Napier's accusations; and as soon as a court-martial could be convened, his probable condemnation to death. And through it all, what would Jack feel? How would this prey upon Jack's rigid beliefs in the customs of the service -- perhaps cast him into an unending paroxysm of guilt?

Jack simply looked at him, and Stephen's anger abated somewhat: Jack looked tired, very tired. "Why did Napier bring this to me now?" he said, rubbing his eyes. "I have that Frenchman to deal with... And I tell you and only you this, Stephen, though the men may guess it: if the wind don't turn to our favour, I will have to start the water over the sides. I will clutch the guns as ever I might in case it comes to a fight, but I would rather run than face her. Not without we get a favourable wind."

Stephen clasped his hands over his lap, considering. He said, "Jack, as I have already seen Wilkins and tried to speak with him: will you allow me to talk to him now? Find the truth of it? You have your Frenchman and are needed on deck. Until the Frenchman chooses to fight, I have no patients more urgent than Wilkins. For indeed, I know he faces death if this is not some mean lie."

Jack gave him a small, weary smile. "Thank you, Stephen. I appreciate it most uncommonly, I assure you."

Stephen paused a moment, then said seriously, "Do not thank me yet, for what will you do if the lad confesses to it? Are you prepared to send him to the hangman's noose?"

"I must abide by the Articles of War," Jack said stiffly, looking away.

"Must you now? I will tell you plainly this: if what is said of him is true, that boy is guilty of no more than loneliness. No more than a need for companionship, for physical love, wherever he may find it, the poor wretch. Does that make him more guilty than us?"

Jack stared at him. In a low voice he said, "Do you compare us to a boy buggering a lamb? By all that's holy, Stephen, how you can joke so..."

Stephen shook his head and sighed. "I do not joke, but let us not discuss this while the boy's guilt or innocence are purely conjectural possibilities." He rose and touched Jack's shoulder again before leaving the cabin. At the door he paused and said, "Think upon what I have said. If loneliness is a sin, then none among us may claim to be sinless."

\-----

Jack knew many tricks to get the _Surprise_ to answer, and he tried every one of them before starting her water. But the French captain obviously knew his ship as thoroughly, and Jack had to admire how the _Humanité_ used every advantage of the wind to her favour and gracefully bore down on them. His worry and anger for the midshipmen left his mind completely as he stood on the quarterdeck with his glass; he sensed that today would finish the race one way or the other.

"Mr Mowett, let the hands be piped to dinner, then we will clear for action. I believe the officers may mess as soon as the hands are fed."

"Very good, sir," said Mowett, who had clearly been expecting his captain's orders. Indeed, it seemed the whole ship had been anticipating the battle, for it took minimum labours to feed the men and clear the decks. Jack went below to dine on coffee, hard tack and the ancient remains of a figgy-dowdy, and was briefly joined by Stephen, who reported to him that the boy would not confess.

It took Jack a moment to recall which boy and which confession. When he did, his fierce anger returned and he said, "God's my life, Stephen, if Napier has been lying to me, I will lash him to the rigging myself." But there was something in Stephen's look -- a certain unwavering manner in his gaze -- which lit the tiniest of suspicions in Jack's mind. He could not believe Stephen would lie to him: but he might keep something back, especially if he felt bound by his doctor's duty to his patient.

"I do not have time for this," Jack said sharply, standing up and putting on his sword belt. The bulkheads were coming down, and their nominal privacy for conversation was at an end.

What a difference those minutes had made. Jack had left the deck with the Frenchman close enough that her warning shots fell less than cable's length away. The sky had been bright and the sea pleasantly choppy. Now the glass was falling, the sky was turning an ominous greenish black, and the waves were tossing higher, sending white sprays over the railing. The _Humanité_ had dropped somewhat, but not enough. In this sea, it was possible she might not be able to open her lower gun ports. In fact, Jack saw through his telescope, she had not done so. On the other hand, each downward roll would put the _Surprise_'s guns in as much peril. Would sending them over the side lighten her enough to escape? While he considered this, the French sent another warning shot from their bow guns. It arced high, fell and ricocheted off the hull lifted on the upward roll, and bounced into the sea with a long splash.

The sky bled inky black and the wind dropped to a light, variable breeze as the Frenchman turned and presented her broadside -- but she would not chance the lower gun ports. The roar and flash sparked the dreadful airs. But, though her captain certainly knew what he was about -- damned fine seamanship -- her gun crews were not as impressive. Only four shots came home: the worst cracking the _Surprise_'s bowsprit so that it hung precariously to larboard; one bit through the mizzen mast on its way across the deck and into the sea, taking part of the railing but missing the larboard quarterdeck carronade by a hair's breadth; the others mauled yards and rigging. Damaging, but not crippling. Splinters, shouts and screams flew across the deck. Something thumped against Jack's leg: it was Mr James, the purser, pierced by a wicked splinter in his belly. Men scrambled to carry the poor man below.

Jack checked the sky, considered the probable time between broadsides from ill-trained French gun crews, took another glance at the sea between them -- precious little sea -- and roared down the hatchway, "As she bears, Mr Andrews! As she bears."

The _Surprise_ rumbled into vicious life; the men yelled as they ran out their guns. And Jack was pleased to see that their gunnery practice answered handsomely. He did not note the time between shots, but that the Surprises got in their second broadside at the moment the _Humanité_ started hers told its own tale. Few shots were penetrating, however, on either side: the _Surprise_'s because she did not have the reach; the _Humanité_'s because she did not have the crews. This would not do.

"Starboard tack, Bonden. We will rake her stern." And Jack hoped he was right: that the Frenchman was undermanned as well as slow with her guns.

He did not find out. The tempest struck as the _Surprise_ turned and sent her best broadside into the _Humanité_'s stern. The Frenchman did not like the blow and probably, Jack thought, did not like the _Surprise_'s well-trained guns. She spread her canvas and pulled away, perhaps to draw the _Surprise_ after her and continue the engagement in a calmer sea. But the _Surprise_ could not follow, for the tempest had swallowed her.

Swallowed her, chewed her, and battered her. Took her broken bowsprit away with a man's leg. Cracked her main mast -- her beautiful new main mast -- with a clean perfection the Frenchman's guns could never have achieved. Tossed the ship and her men under mountains of waves until up was down. One of the boats was ripped from its cables and gored the railing as it flew into the sea, taking with it Adam Heathe, ship's boy, and Josiah Brand, landsman. It rained dead fish on the second day; on the third a palm tree whipped into the upper rigging and tangled there, having been blown, by Jack's best reckoning, over five hundred miles.

Jack did not sleep, even when exhaustion and the constant battery of the wind threatened to beat him down. When he was not checking the pumps he was checking the masts, bellowing orders over the deafening wind, half blinded by the bitter hard rain. When on the third day the wind veered the merest bit, Jack's body (if not his mind) at last believed there was an end to the dreadful rage of the tempest: he fell asleep standing up, clutching a backstay.

He woke up in his cabin in his sleeping cot, covered by his pea jacket. Sunlight streamed in through the stern windows and there was an unusual amount of activity happening around him: the bulkheads had never been replaced, and men moved about the gently rocking gun deck, splicing cables, righting overturned guns, making repairs. Jack got up and went on deck and was greeted by the calmest, sweetest sea and a light, warm breeze.

Repairs well underway, a true noon reckoning for the first time in days, and finally Jack allowed himself his coffee and a generous helping of hot burgoo. He was still too alive to the ship's state to settle in for a larger meal: hundreds of things to check; he would pause, then see a hundred more. He did not see Stephen until the next day -- another clear, calm day -- when Stephen walked up to him on the quarterdeck and asked how his head felt.

"My head?" Jack asked, lifting a hand to his forehead.

Stephen sniffed and grasped his head and bent it down, poking and pressing until Jack felt the dull pain and drew back. "As I thought," said Stephen. "A bruise, nothing more. The greater the man, the greater his injuries must become in the eyes of superstitious men." He cast a cool glance at Mr Andrews and Mr Munro, both of whom quickly looked away.

Jack felt the back of his head and touched the bruise. "I don't recall hitting it. How is poor Mr James? He was standing next to me, you know."

Stephen's lips bent inward very slightly. "I will do what I can," he said at last, but his voice was helpless, bleak. Jack felt the keenest urge to place his arms around him: it was as if Stephen might fall without Jack's arms to hold him. He patted Stephen's elbow instead, and Stephen gave him a weak smile.

Jack consulted with Mr Munro and the other officers and was supported in his intention to head for Recife. The _Humanité_ had chased them too far off course, and the _Surprise_ needed more than jury masts to make it much farther. So far the calmer winds were holding true; Jack scratched a stay and hoped they would remain so. The most urgent repairs were completed as best they could be, and the ship, though she was not so beautiful now, returned to busy ritual and routine. Jack rigged church on Sunday for the first time since the _Humanité_ had given chase, and gave thanks for their deliverance from the tempest.

And yet, despite the relief and sweet favourable weather, the ship was subdued and a strange depression settled over her. Jack felt it, even if Stephen dismissed it as sailors' superstition, and proposed they return to their music to dispel the uneasy airs.

Stephen looked anguished. "I am sorry, my dear. The storm destroyed my cello in her case: sheared her neck completely and broke her back. It was the completest thing. Such violence I have rarely seen, and never to such an innocent."

Jack grasped Stephen's hand, unable to express his sympathy in words. He played solo for Stephen, but it did not answer, and instead they played cards. Stephen was very lucky at cards, and as Jack had hoped, his repeated victories lessened some of the grief over the cello.

The next day Jack resumed the education of his midshipmen, directing and requiring them to bring their sextants to the quarterdeck to make the noon observation. It was then that he noticed Mr Napier's black eye.

"Mr Napier, did you fall during the storm?" he asked, indifferently kind, for he did not love Napier and never would.

"No, sir," Napier said sullenly, and seemed about to say something else when the lookout called, "Land ho!" A scurry of activity as the officers strode to the bow and lifted their telescopes, returned and confirmed the lookout's cry to Jack, who had felt the looming presence of land the entire day.

"Very well," he said. "Trim royals." He turned to the youngsters. "Gentlemen, we will resume our observation. Where is Mr Wilkins?"

Adams and Fellowes looked dumb. Napier said with a sneer, "I believe he is in the manger, sir," and Jack felt a mild rage toward the lad which he checked.

"The manger, is it?" he snarled, marching toward the companion-way, down the ladder to the gundeck, marching forward with his shoulders and head bent to save his hat. He was certain Napier was lying to him -- was making a mean jest to remind Jack of the accusation against Wilkins -- and Jack was prepared to feel some small satisfaction in exposing the lie before setting about the grave business of seizing Napier to the shrouds until he learned to hold his tongue. Jack was not prepared, therefore, for what he found in the manger.

Wilkins was there, his pantaloons at his ankles, but he was not buggering the lamb, which was innocently asleep in the straw beside him. He was being kissed and held in the strong, dirty arms of William Pruitt, ordinary seaman, a gruff London lad of about seventeen. So lost and senseless were they in their rough groping that they did not perceive Jack's presence. It was Napier's snickering which startled them; Napier had dutifully followed his captain, as had Adams and Fellowes and, less dutifully, several of the hands.

Jack stared at them. They broke apart, Wilkins reaching for his pantaloons with shaking hands and managing one of the buttons. Jack said nothing -- he was too shocked and angry. And sad: Stephen had been right -- loneliness was not a sin, and before him Jack saw a very pale, lonely, miserable child in the awkward body of a young man. In the oppressive humid silence Wilkins began to cry. Tears streamed down his cheeks, which were stained from the tar on Pruitt's hands.

Pruitt was a different sight entirely: he jutted out his jaw and met Jack's eye with defiance. Probably drunk, Jack decided, and he felt very weary and weighted down. Without turning he said calmly, "Mr Fellowes, bring the master-at-arms and tell him he is to clap William Pruitt in irons. Mr Wilkins, you will clean yourself and come to my cabin directly. Mr Napier, Mr Adams: you will return to the quarterdeck and finish the noon observation with Mr Mowett."

\-----

Brazil was a wall of vivid, vibrant green shimmering across the deep blue water. The _Surprise_ rocked gently on a calm sea, at anchor just off the sea-road into Recife. The sun blazed overhead and down through the canopy of sailcloth, and the quarterdeck stank of moist wool and sweat. Jack stood stiffly at the railing, flanked by his officers: a statue of blue, white and gold, unmoving but for his breathing and the drops of sweat running down his face. Stephen stared at him as if from a great distance: Jack was unreachable in this state and in this duty; it was like observing an insect in its natural habitat and watching it crawl unfamiliar paths capricious and nonsensical to man. Stephen looked away and watched the master-at-arms tie Pruitt's wrists to the raised grating.

Wilkins began to swoon. Stephen gripped his elbow, and Padeen lifted the other with his left hand and steadied Wilkins's back with his right so that the boy could stand. Wilkins's body shook; his teeth clattered and he bit down on his jaw to quiet himself. In the grim heavy silence a wheezing, metallic voice came from far along the forecastle, anonymous behind the heads of almost two-hundred men: "Old Goldilocks is coming it pretty high, ain't he?"

"Shut yer yob," his neighbour said, but the man went on: "After what him and the doctor been doing since we left the Channel, this is coming it pretty h--" His words were cut off abruptly, perhaps from an elbow to the ribs.

Stephen did not look at Jack. It was impossible that Jack hadn't heard. The entire ship had heard. The entire ship had heard and pretended not to hear. Just as it watched the first stroke of the cat cut across William Pruitt's back and pretended not to see. The first stroke, and the twenty-three that followed it. Each great crash of the rope against skin ripped through the sickening silence.

Padeen took Wilkins below, and Stephen followed the master-at-arms and the stout hand who carried Pruitt's limp body down to the sickbay; the lad had passed out before the twenty-first stroke. Stephen put on his spectacles and apron, stirred the ointment he had prepared, and when Padeen joined him, directed him to mop the blood from the boy's back. Pruitt's pulse was strong and his colour was good. After they had cleaned and dressed his cuts, Stephen passed a vial of bitters in front of the boy's nose. Pruitt woke up, cursed and winced, and glowered at Stephen. Stephen poured him a dose of laudanum and spooned it between his lips, telling him, "This will dull the pain."

He sat with Pruitt for a while to make sure he rested and didn't cast off his dressings, then he went to check on Wilkins, who sat shivering in the midshipmen's berth. Stephen sat down beside him and said quietly, "It is not as bad as it looked. No bone was exposed, and he is very strong. He's resting now, and Padeen will stay with him."

Wilkins simply nodded and looked away. Stephen watched him for a few moments, checking for signs of fever, then left him and returned to the sickbay to ready Mr James for the trip across.

The boat pulled off: Stephen, the unresponsive Mr James, Bonden and the oarsmen, two reliable strong men who had carried Mr James and handed him gently down into the boat. The sun gleamed on the cheerful waves, and the sounds and mysterious smells of Recife grew ever nearer. A short distance parallel to them and somewhat ahead was the other boat, carrying Jack, Mr Lamb and Mr Hollar.

Mr James survived the storm, the repairs, the limping along the coast, the boat ride across, and the bumpy walk to the poor little hospital run by Franciscan friars. There he finally died, after waking up and calling for "Caroline." Stephen spoke with the brothers and arranged for the body to be cleaned and covered until he should know if a sea or earthen burial was needed, then he took Bonden and the reliable hands to the market to buy greenstuff and fresh provisions. Bonden knew from previous voyages what Stephen would need, and Stephen left him there with the purse of money and walked away from the market and away from the sea until he found a secluded empty spot where he sank to the ground under a ripe and pungent tree.

Anger had left him quite early: there was no object for its direction. He could not be angry at Jack. Not after seeing Jack's look of tortured unhappiness when he had told Stephen about Wilkins and Pruitt. Stephen's anger had settled on the Navy, on its barbarous customs and inhumane punishments -- and on its cruel and insidious seduction of good men like Jack Aubrey, which forced them to become little tyrants: little, unhappy and most times ineffectual tyrants. But the Navy was not a satisfactory opponent: it did not fight back and it did not argue except through the mouth of its servant -- Jack -- and Stephen perceived that by pressing his arguments, he was only hurting Jack and not the real malefactor.

And in fact, within his own guiding code, Jack's decisions were fair, Stephen believed. Pruitt had been clothed when discovered -- a lucky chance of timing -- and no actual sodomy was taking place at the time. Jack carefully had not asked either of the young men if it had ever taken place, and Stephen had not volunteered his own conviction that it most certainly had: his earlier examination of Wilkins had left little doubt, but at the time Stephen had suspected something more untoward, and had wanted Wilkins to implicate those responsible. Now with hindsight he understood both Wilkins's great fear and his steadfast refusal to speak.

Jack had also persevered in his belief that Pruitt had been drunk at the time. There was no proof of this although, Stephen reflected with disgust, most of the hands were somewhat drunk all the time since they lived on grog. Jack's belief had been founded on Pruitt's behaviour -- he had looked Jack straight in the eye without any sign of shame -- but Stephen suspected that Jack's insistence on this point was to provide Pruitt with an explanation. In the end, the severity of Pruitt's flogging was due more to the black eye he'd given Napier: Napier had been quite eager to tell Jack the source of his injury after Pruitt and Wilkins were discovered. Pruitt's grog had been stopped, and excepting whatever obscure lower deck punishments Pruitt's messmates might mete out, Stephen thought the worst was over now.

More worrying was Wilkins, and it was over Wilkins that Stephen and Jack had quarrelled without reaching a conclusion. Jack clearly pitied the boy, but was furious that Wilkins had been caught with an ordinary seaman: it was an abuse of rank in Jack's opinion, and could only lead to ill-will, favouritism, loss of discipline, lack of respect, complete confusion. That Wilkins hardly seemed to be the aggressor or initiator had not mattered to Jack: he was too appalled by the whole thing. He had lectured then yelled at Wilkins -- alone in the great cabin, but most of the ship, including Stephen, had heard. Then he had seized the boy to a gun and whipped him, telling him that he was doing him the very great favour of not disrating him. Finally, he had tried to explain to the bawling Wilkins that it was a very great sin, and quite unnatural and un-Christian -- and did Wilkins not know what Article Twenty-Nine meant after all the times Jack had read aloud the Articles of War after rigging church?

Had the punishment ended there, Stephen would not have pressed the matter. The whipping Wilkins received with the frayed end of a rope had not been severe; Stephen thought perhaps Jack had been too agitated to aim well and apply consistent force. However, Wilkins punished himself afterward: he withdrew into himself and would not eat and would not speak. And in this state, with his wits no doubt leaving him, he had been forced by Jack's direct order to watch Pruitt's flogging. "He is the cause of it," Jack had said. "He must bear witness."

Stephen disagreed thoroughly with this, but he knew Jack liked it not. These dreadful few hours -- only one entire day from the discovery to the punishment -- had worn Jack down. They had ended their argument in tired disagreement, but Stephen had not missed the stricken look on Jack's face and knew quite well that Jack was aware of the illogical absurdity of his position. Do men countenance the drunk who rails against the evils of rum? Or the inveterate wencher who preaches abstinence from all carnal thought and deed? Or the pickpocket who cries thief when his spoils are taken from him?

Stephen leaned against the tree and stared up at the great overhanging leaves which shielded the sun's rays so that they fell in long narrow slits over him. Was Jack Aubrey a moral man, he asked himself, then decided that the question was not fair: it presumed morality as a fixed and definable state, and it also presumed his own ability to measure it, which under the circumstances seemed ludicrous. What he did know, and thought he could judge fairly, was that Jack Aubrey was a good man even if he was not always a moral one. Jack did not purposely live his life one way while telling others how to live theirs. He did not set himself above others and from a lofty height decree behaviours. He believed very strongly in certain things which ordered his world, but he also followed his heart and lived by it.

Stephen considered this thought and found that it answered. Jack's heart was at sea, so he lived on the sea. Jack's heart loved happiness, so he lived to be happy and wanted happiness around him. And Jack's heart loved whom it loved, paying no heed to suitability or propriety, and so Jack loved.

The slits of sunlight slanted more sharply, and Stephen rose. As he walked to the market he found that he was still thinking of Jack, and wondering how Jack would settle his mind after this. Perhaps it were best if they could give up their intimacy, Stephen reflected, but the thought formed a pit in his stomach, and with a startling contrariness his body yearned for Jack's, and he had the strongest desire to hold him and tell him all that he had thought about him: that Jack was a good man who lived by his heart, and there was no sin and no hypocrisy in that.

The desire did not quite fade when Stephen met Bonden and the hands and inspected their purchases with approval. Nor did it when they rowed back to the _Surprise_ and oversaw the stowing of the greenstuff. Not even at finding that Jack had not yet returned from his visit to the governor's house. It stayed with Stephen well into the night, and it was only at the moment between wakefulness and sleep that he realised he had not taken his usual dose of laudanum since the tempest began.

\-----

Jack felt incredibly old. After seeing to the timbers and cordage and leaving the bosun and carpenter in charge of refitting, and arranging for the water and some fresh provisions, he trudged up the road to the governor's house: a formality, and a dreary one, but it was his duty as he saw it. The governor's household welcomed him with a cordiality he had not expected from a neutral, and the governor himself was lively and very jolly. Jack stayed to dine, was quite impressed with the governor's wines, and by the end of the meal he did not feel so old, though he felt very, very tired.

A damnable day, despite its pleasant ending. Jack did not want to think about William Pruitt being flogged, and he did not want to think about Wilkins, the poor, stupid, lonely fellow. He did spare a thought for Napier -- a rum, vicious lad in Jack's opinion, and one who deserved more than a black eye for all his trouble. He also spared a thought for old John Moore, for the disembodied voice at the flogging had been his and not Jack's own conscience speaking.

"Coming it pretty high?" Jack muttered. His ship turned into a bawdy-house for midshipmen, and _he_ was coming it high? And to hear himself and Stephen spoken of in such a manner -- it was vile, absolutely wicked. All the more wicked because it was perfectly untrue. Yes, yes, on another voyage, perhaps Moore would have had some cause to whisper such a blackguard thing about his captain; even before Jack and Stephen were intimate, there had been rumours, Jack knew. But on this voyage he and Stephen had done nothing less chaste than kiss. Excepting the one time they had been interrupted, if one counted it -- and Jack did not. That was what rankled so: to have the rumour spoken when it was utterly false.

Jack had longed for this voyage after their journey in Spain: there was nothing so sweet as being at sea, on the ship he loved best, with his very own dear Stephen. It was so very comforting, so very right and complete. But nothing had happened as Jack had hoped. A troublesome -- he would not say cursed -- voyage from the beginning and one which bore down upon his spirits until he felt strangely and unnaturally isolated, despite Stephen's presence. May this flogging be the end of it, he thought, without much conviction.

After the briefest of twilights, night fell and Jack followed lanterns in the street and in houses through the town. The air was quite warm and humid and fragrant of flowers, but a fine topgallant breeze kept it from being cloying. Through an open window he heard a pianoforte and paused to listen: Bach? He thought perhaps it was Bach, and stepped closer to commit the notes to memory: he would ask Stephen's opinion of it later. The musician had a fine hand -- confident and steady but graceful. No simpering or hesitations. He peeked into the window but saw nothing but an old cat staring back at him; the music was coming from another room. The cat blinked, Jack bade it good night and turned to continue on his way.

What he saw first across the street, under a lantern shining from an upper window, was a bared breast. A fine round firm breast peaked with a large dark pointed nipple. Jack swallowed and saw the slanted, wide full hips, the swaying skirt and bare feet, the frilled blouse falling off her shoulders, the fall of long black waves of hair, and the white flower tucked behind her ear. As he looked, she smiled at him -- the lazy smile of a whore -- and beckoned with her bare shoulder, lifting her very round, very naked, and very luscious breast higher. Jack swallowed again and glanced about -- for what he did not know -- and he saw only the cat, which gave him a mildly amused, dismissive look. Jack crossed the street, and the pianoforte's notes followed him softly, punctuating the rhythm of the woman's swaying hips.

\-----

Stephen's sleep was light, ever on the edge of waking. He was unused to this. When laudanum had not taken him into a black depth, exhaustion had. Now his mind filled with thoughts then emptied of them in successive waves -- a curious sleep. Dimly and muffled he heard the watch change. Men's footsteps on the ladders, men's voices speaking behind the veil of half-consciousness. Stephen could not wake up, but he could not go deeper, and his dreams and visions blended with his surroundings in a pleasant confusion: he was dreaming of Jack -- naked and starkly erotic -- when he heard the captain being piped aboard late, very late.

He woke up sluggish and dull, the activity in the gunroom outside his cabin telling him that it was morning. He dressed and followed the scent of Killick's coffee to Jack's cabin, where Jack was sitting in his open shirt at the table, with a plate of eggs and toast and a ripe, open papaya-fruit before him.

"Oh, there you are, Stephen," Jack said with a smile, and Killick poured coffee into the second cup and muttered something about no more toast as he left them. Stephen joined Jack at the table and seized the cup, and when he was quite rejuvenated, he observed Jack more closely, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the colour of his cheeks, and the determined way he tore the fruit.

"How is your patient?" Jack asked.

Stephen took a piece of toast from Jack's plate and spooned marmalade on it. "Alas, Mr James's extraordinary constitution failed him after the journey. Faith, I had expected it much sooner. Please to tell me if Mr James should be buried in the earth or in the sea."

Jack was silent for a moment. "Poor soul," he said quietly. "A sea burial would answer best, I believe. I will send some hands to the hospital for him. But in fact I was asking after young Pruitt."

"It could have been very much worse," Stephen said, "though it is bad enough. I cannot release him for work: the cuts will have to heal without disease or infection. And the young man can barely move from pain."

Jack looked at him, some of yesterday's torment reappearing before he said stiffly, "I was not asking when he could work. I did not enjoy punishing him, which you know very well, Stephen, but it had to be done. I will be heartily glad to see him well again. He is a good hand, and I will rate him able if he can stay out of trouble."

Stephen touched Jack's hand. "Dear, I spoke only the truth with no intention behind it. This black business has troubled us both, I find." Jack nodded and poured him more coffee. Stephen drank, observed Jack, and asked in a lighter tone, "How was the governor's dinner? You had much wine, I believe."

Jack smiled softly at him and said, "I wish you had come with me. He keeps a very fine cellar, though somewhat small. And do you know, I believe he may have gotten some of his recent stores from our French friend. The _Humanité_ was here some weeks ago. Oh, I do wish I could have brought you some of his claret."

"At the moment, this noble coffee," Stephen said, pouring his third cup, "is my nectar, and all that I require. And I have purchased all the citrus and greenstuff you will allow me to keep -- to _stow_."

Jack ate the last of his eggs and papaya, smiled in satisfaction and raised his coffee cup to Stephen's, then rose and went to his sea-chest, where Killick had laid out his waistcoat, coat and hat. He buttoned his shirt, and as he was wrapping the stock around his throat, Stephen murmured, "I do hope the lady was not poxed."

"Stephen!" Jack cried, turning. His cheeks flushed a deep red, and in his mute embarrassed horror, he glanced down and noticed his hat. "Oh God," he muttered, picking it up and plucking the wilted white flower from the cockade. "I did not even see it." He tossed the flower and the hat onto the table and sat down heavily. Stephen picked up the flower; its petals fell apart in his fingers. He could smell the dying traces of its sweet scent.

"I was piped aboard in that hat..." Jack said, rubbing his brow. "No wonder Killick was such a rare fellow this morning. Stephen, I did not intend... I went only to pay my respects to the governor. But I suppose I had too much wine, and--"

"Ah," Stephen said, interrupting. "Do not say more than your honour will allow, my love. My concern is for your health, and in that regard, I suppose I shall have to examine you presently. A day or two should tell, for the first signs."

Jack shifted, looking abashed. "I am sorry, Stephen," he said in a low tone. "I never meant to disappoint you."

Stephen regarded him, privately amused at the thought that he would be jealous of a Recife slut. "Never in life," he said. "I am of the opinion that for a man with your animal spirits such liaisons are inevitable. And excepting any worry of pox, they are usually beneficial in releasing ill humours and distractions." In his mind, he added, _And you have been chaste as a priest these months, and borne it better than expectation_. Stephen felt a pang of guilt and regret that he had imposed chastity upon Jack through his use of the laudanum. He had wanted to reduce only his mental agitation, but the physic's antaphrodisiac properties had not been unknown to him -- yet he had not thought on the effects to Jack.

Jack looked solemn and searched Stephen's face before relaxing slightly. "Well, there may be something to what you say. I did feel uncommon rested this morning, after such a day." He took Stephen's hand and held it. "But, Stephen, I must go ashore again, and upon my word, I will not be swayed. There is no time for it anyway: such a number of things to do. Will you come ashore with me? While I am about the timbers, you may go exploring for your vampires and wild birds."

Stephen gently squeezed his fingers. "I will. Yesterday was not a happy day for observation. Today may reveal many wonders."

It did not reveal many wonders, but it was a pleasant day. He saw the friars and thanked them for watching over the body of the unfortunate Mr James. Two reliable hands from the _Surprise_ carried the body back on a stretcher: the captain would read the service upon his return. Stephen did not find Jack when he returned to the dockyards, so he continued his walk with the intention of calling upon Doctor Fonseca, an old acquaintance, but the doctor was not at home. Presently Stephen returned to the tree where he had sat before. Here he rested, smoked a cheroot, and was rewarded by the sight of an eared dove and, somewhat later and more fleetingly, a curassow. He met Jack at the boat very close to their appointed rendezvous, and they were rowed back to the _Surprise_, Jack carrying a large trunk Stephen guessed was full of wine.

It was not wine. After the brief, solemn service for Mr James, and Jack's long consultation with the carpenter and bosun, he invited Stephen to the cabin and opened the trunk. "I hope it is not too shabby," he said as Stephen carefully lifted the cello and balanced it on the floor. Stephen was amazed, too amazed to speak.

"It is rather ancient," Jack said, looking at it critically and touching a mark on its side. "But it was the best the governor could find. The strings seem to be in good shape, however."

"My dear!" Stephen said at last, sitting down and bringing the cello between his knees. He plucked at the strings, and Jack handed him the bow. It needed rosin, but he tested it and found that it would do. The instrument was indeed ancient -- not very pretty to look at, and not very graceful to hold -- but it was whole and perfect. He looked up at Jack with great affection, terribly moved and uncertain what to say.

Jack's smile was full of tenderness and love: Stephen did not have to say a thing. He rose and put the cello to rest in its trunk, then touched Jack's cheeks and kissed him: a slow, full, deep kiss that stirred Stephen's hunger from its long cold slumber.

Jack drew back with a sigh and soft smile and said, "Perhaps we might have some music this evening."

"We shall," Stephen said firmly, kissing his brow. He knelt by the trunk and ran his fingers over the old scratched wood while Jack hunted around through his charts for their music. Stephen was about to suggest the old Corelli, a favourite they knew by heart, when the sentry knocked once and opened the cabin door and Mr Mowett entered, looking pale and nervous.

"Yes, Mr Mowett?" Jack said.

"Sir." Mowett hesitated, and Jack frowned at him, standing at his full height in the very picture of an impatient leader waiting for unhappy news. "Sir, it is my duty to report that Mr Wilkins has... has deserted the ship. He did not report for the noon observation, and was not found in his berth, so I beat to divisions and had the ship searched while you were ashore, sir. He is not here."

Jack was very still, very grave. "None of the hands saw him go?"

"None will admit to it, sir," Mowett said. "And it may be the truth. The bumboats have been back and forth all day, and with that diversion and with the repairs, I'm afraid things have not been so orderly as they should be." Mowett lowered his eyes from Jack's unwavering stare, and Stephen saw how deeply the young lieutenant was affected by what he perceived as his failure in duty. Stephen looked at Jack, and Jack, he noted, was not surprised by the news, though he was unhappy and angry. Not at Mowett -- that he did not blame Mowett was perfectly obvious; angry perhaps at Wilkins, or perhaps at himself.

"All other hands are accounted for?" Jack asked.

"Yes, sir," said Mowett with something like relief, for Jack's voice was quite calm and held no condemnation in it.

"Very well," said Jack heavily. Mowett bowed and hurried from the cabin as quickly as naval custom would allow, and as he left Stephen and Jack shared a single thought silently -- _Pruitt_ \-- and Stephen departed in the same manner, swiftly descending down to the sickbay.

He found Pruitt asleep, with Padeen watching over him. Stephen examined his patient, gave instructions to Padeen for changing the dressings, and turning around he found Jack waiting. Jack glanced beyond Stephen and gave him a questioning look.

"Pruitt rests easily," Stephen said. "He has not stirred."

Jack sighed unhappily, stepping away from the door. Stephen joined him, folding his spectacles and tucking them into a pocket. "You think he'll run when he knows," Stephen said, for it was not a question; Jack's look revealed his thoughts as perfectly as if he had spoken them.

Jack nodded, looking back at Pruitt, and raised his chin. "Wouldn't you?" he asked quietly, giving Stephen a steady, careful look, and his eyes were a dark, dark blue. Stephen looked into them and felt a strong, startling pulse of consuming love for Jack with his romantic ideals -- immediately tainted by pure wretchedness.

"No," said Stephen. "It is not that. Wilkins, the poor unhappy creature, has deserted _him_ as well as the ship." He stared at Pruitt's peaceful sleeping form. "How I shall find the will to tell him, faith, I do not know. This is a miserable black business," he said, turning to Jack, who now looked upon Pruitt with a stark, still, sad sympathy.

"May God have mercy on his soul," Jack whispered, and Stephen was not sure if he meant Pruitt or Wilkins.

\-----

The yards at Recife were not as generous with their timbers as Jack would have liked, but at least the _Surprise_ had her bowsprit again and a main mast which was not beautiful but could support her sails. He had hawsers clapped to all the masts, had the sails patched, and left the Recife sea-road as soon as he could, before any more of the hands -- discontent over Jack's decision not to grant them leave on shore -- took it in their heads to run. There was no question of searching for Wilkins -- not in Jack's mind, anyway, as he wrote the terrible letter 'R' next to Wilkins's name in the muster book. One little scared boy and the whole of the Brazilian jungle: a search would be madness.

Jack and Stephen resumed their music -- the ancient cello had a pleasing sound even if she was not pretty to look at. Stephen now lingered in the evenings, long after they had set down their bows, and spoke of Africa, his hopes of seeing lemurs, camelopards, and any number of precious rare birds. And at Jack's questions, told him of Pruitt's progress and recovery.

Pruitt returned to his place in the ship's company; there were no incidents. In the dull foremast logic of his mates, he had been flogged for striking Napier, who received no sympathy. That Pruitt had been kissing and (Jack was convinced though he did not mention it) buggering one of the midshipmen was conveniently forgotten. Pruitt's mess accepted him: the old hands were kind to him and the Swedish twins were either remarkably docile or deeply stupid, or both. Pruitt bore his lot well and displayed no outward resentment or grief. And when one hot windless day Jack, up on the cross-trees to snatch the barest hint of a breeze, overheard Pruitt questioning one of the old hands -- What kind of place was Brazil? Was it very dangerous? Was it filled with man-eating beasts? Could a boy survive there by himself? -- Jack was filled with a gentle, inexpressible sympathy for the lad.

Jack had hoped for sweet westerly winds to waft them to Africa quickly. Instead the airs were fickle and ever-changing; it was as if the tempest which had mauled them so was lurking in the sea, waiting for them. One day they were blown hundreds of miles in a piercing, bracing frigid blast that delighted Jack. The next they were driven off-course by an answering blow that fought them for every league gained. Then the seas would be becalmed, and they would drift or, worse, sit still under a hazy humid sky that promised rain but did not bring it. With an ancient mariner's sense of the sea, Jack was made uneasy by these fickle airs, and the experienced Surprises murmured among themselves of omens and signs. Strange flotsam drifted by them each day: a British beef cask, a lady's parasol, French wine bottles, dead birds, palm leaves, a child's doll, a man's bloated and beastly arm. This last Jack feared Stephen would want to fish for, though he had refrained from netting the birds. However, even Stephen seemed affected by the dreadful air, and upon seeing the drifting limb merely commented that whatever tore it away had done a very ragged job of it.

Stephen was very sweet and pleasing in his company. He was patient when Jack was too restless to take up his fiddle; he was content to prattle about birds and beetles, knowing Jack was comforted by the sound of his voice; he touched Jack often on the hair, cheek or shoulder and kissed him sometimes, and Jack felt easier. The day they saw the arm -- a unlucky sign if ever there was one -- Stephen embraced Jack and they sat by the stern windows in silence.

Stephen stroked and kissed Jack's hair and said, "I have never seen you so. Are we on course? Do we drift toward an unknown?"

Jack squeezed Stephen in his arms. "By my reckoning, we are not above two or three days' sailing from Africa, though we are somewhat more northerly than I would like."

Stephen said nothing for a moment, then: "It pleases me to hear it, but I might ask the same question again: not of the ship but of us." He combed a stray lock of Jack's hair from his cheek.

"Oh, Stephen," Jack said, pressing his face to Stephen's shoulder and sighing. "I have been a wretch, I know it." He looked at Stephen, smiled a little, and touched Stephen's lips with his fingertips. Stephen smiled under them and kissed them. Jack traced their shape, their soft curves, and felt a stirring, warm and pleasant and familiar. He smiled again, and Stephen returned his smile: very private and very knowing. After a moment they kissed tenderly, and Stephen held him again.

"The airs will soon change, I am sure of it," said Stephen. He pulled the ribbon from Jack's hair and combed his fingers through it. Jack closed his eyes and felt calm from the easy rise and fall of Stephen's breathing, from his gentle touches, from his scent and stillness and warmth. Without meaning to, he began to doze and he tried to stir himself and apologise, but Stephen silenced him with a slow caress, saying, "Shhh."

\-----

The airs did change, sooner than expected. Stephen and Killick had lifted Jack to his sleeping cot -- once deeply asleep at sea, little else but a change in the wind would wake Jack, and Stephen had not wanted him to sleep on the bench, where a sudden bounce might send him to the floor. Stephen retired to his cabin feeling vaguely peaceful and content, and he was reading Palisot de Beauvois's fascinating quarto on African insects when the _Surprise_ lurched violently and the book nearly fell from his hands. He got up and placed the book in a chest for safety, all the while shaken and rocked by the groaning ship. He heard Captain Quinn and Mr Munro in the gunroom and followed them up the ladders.

He was initially surprised to see Jack on the quarterdeck, clutching a stay, drenched, and shouting orders: it had seemed only a few minutes before that Stephen had left him sleeping like a babe, though upon reflection, Stephen realised it had been more than an hour. Fighting the racing, bitter wind and rain Stephen made his way to the quarterdeck just as Mr Napier yelled: "Eleven knots, sir!"

"It is coming on to blow, my dear doctor," said Jack, laughing. His loose hair streamed in long wet waves about his face, and his shirt and breeches clung to him as if he had just taken a swim. Killick appeared from the hatchway, grumbling as he covered Jack's shoulders with his oilskin cloak.

Stephen stepped out of the way as men crawled around and above him; he was interested in this sudden change. This was a Jack he had not seen for many weeks: lively and active and roaring commands with a smile on his face. He knew Jack liked a storm, especially one he was confident the _Surprise_ could weather, but he had never witnessed so quick a transformation before. Nevertheless, it pleased him to see it. He watched Jack spring onto the railing and look up into the maze of the mizzen mast, then leap down and march to the foremast as steadily as if the ship were not tilting like a cottage roof, with water pouring over her. Stephen smiled softly, watching him, then recollected that not every hand on the _Surprise_ was as sure-footed, and very shortly the predictable violent falls would fill the sickbay. With far less ease and grace than Jack, Stephen crept to the hatch and so below.

It was a busy night for Stephen, but none of the cases were hopeless, with the blessing. He dozed in the sickbay, too tired to return to his cabin, dimly aware that the _Surprise_ had stopped tossing and spinning. When he woke, he smelled food -- actual galley food: the men's dinner -- and was shocked that it could be so late. He hurried on deck and found all the officers amidships, standing by the starboard railing, watching intently. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. It was not so late after all; the hands had been piped to an early dinner. The storm had cleared, though the sky was still grey, and dawn had revealed the ship off to starboard: Stephen could see the tops of her masts. As he came to the railing, Jack stepping aside for him, he knew with a superstitious certainty what he would see: the _Humanité_.

"It is our French friend," Jack said, handing Stephen his glass.

She was in a bad way: there were holes in her stern, larger and more recent than the ones the _Surprise_ could have caused from their earlier engagement; some of her gun ports seemed to be gaping; the top of her main mast was missing; and a sail and rigging hung about her.

"The tempest?" Stephen asked incredulously.

"No," said Jack darkly, and directed the glass in Stephen's hands until Stephen could just make out a far away sail on the horizon, where the air was clearing in the direction of Africa. "She has taken a prize, the dog. Bonden thinks it might have been the _Tethys_, seventy-four, but we got only the briefest glimpse. The storm may have caused some of it, but it appears that the _Tethys_ did rather well for herself before she struck."

Stephen handed him the glass and glanced about the ship. "We are not running this time," he said, feeling an obscure sadness for the inevitable carnage and death.

Jack flashed him a grin. "We are not running."

The _Humanité_ did not run, either -- if indeed she could have. She met the _Surprise_ with her powerful broadsides, and below, in the orlop running with blood and filled with the moans and cries of men, Stephen lost track of time and the incessant roaring and violent quaking; he was too busy cutting, sewing, pulling shot and splinters from men's bodies, and grimly assessing their chances of survival. As in all such actions, though he went about his work with the efficient detachment a true physician needed, part of him was always aware -- was always glancing at the blood-covered body before him, waiting for it to be Jack. It had often been Jack, in fact; and despite his detachment, Stephen had never been able to control his immediate dismayed shock before setting about repairing him.

This time, it was never Jack, though familiar faces caused Stephen some small sadness: young Fellowes (the eye might be saved); Captain Quinn of the Marines (they had stopped the blood in time); William Pruitt (he would now have scars across his belly to mimic those across his back); and Mr Napier (the leg could not be saved). And many others, whose names came to him -- or did not -- as he worked. Steadily, without pause, on and on, even after the roars and shaking had stopped.

The bodies stopped arriving, and Padeen swabbed the sand and blood from the floor. Stephen checked on the most worrying cases, left the men sewing up their mates in their hammocks, and climbed to the deck. He was startled to see a brilliant afternoon sun beyond the dissipating veil of smoke. The _Humanité_ looked much the same, to his un-naval eye -- but for one significant difference: British colours now flew from her mast.

He found Jack by the helm, conversing with Mr Munro and Bonden. His hair had been hastily tied back under his hat, and Stephen noted that Killick had managed to get him into his frock coat for battle.

"I give you joy of the victory," Stephen said, and Jack turned around to smile at him: he was completely covered with blood. Stephen pursed his lips, put on his spectacles and set about Jack's clothes, lifting and unbuttoning and feeling the skin underneath until Jack cried out: "Doctor, please!"

Stephen squinted at a red line on Jack's cheek: a cut? a scar? He dabbed at it with his fingers. Only a smear of blood. "I am quite unhurt, Stephen," Jack said, and followed Stephen's gaze down to his clothes. "Oh. I caught poor Mr Quinn, you know. Is he--?"

"I am hopeful," Stephen said, lifting Jack's waistcoat and checking the pattern of blood. It was true: none of it seemed to have come from Jack himself. Stephen stood back and removed his spectacles, saying, "Well, now I can truly give you joy of the victory, though it was not without its toll. I am hopeful for Mr Quinn, less hopeful for Mr Napier; the rest, with the blessing, will live. Only four deaths immediate."

Jack looked solemn and nodded. "Poor souls. But indeed it might have been much worse. The French were horribly short of men. Sent off too many on the _Tethys_, I imagine. We fired two broadsides for her one, and were up to three for her one before they struck their colours."

The wearying day was not over for Stephen: he accompanied Jack and Mr Mowett aboard the _Humanité_, met their captain -- a polite and dignified gentleman, quite old -- and their doctor -- fond of his spirits, but quite capable, Stephen decided after touring his crowded infirmary. The French casualties had been much greater.

The Surprises bade their mates good-bye in a quiet, grave ceremony. Jack was always much affected by the reading of the names, and afterward he set about many practical tasks with a ruthless energy which might have seemed cold and uncaring in another man but was never so in Jack. Mr Mowett was made acting captain of the prize, and Jack gave him a prodigious number of hands, including many with carpentry skills, so that she might make it as far as Gibraltar. Jack did not want to risk losing her: the _Humanité_ was an excellent capture, he said, and by the time William brought her to port, the loss of the _Tethys_ would be well-known.

Finally Stephen slept, soundly and solidly, undisturbed by the repairs going on around and above him. He woke feeling renewed, with the keenest anticipation of the future: Africa, Mozambique, and possibly camelopards and lemurs. He half expected to see the great continent on the horizon when he came on deck, and felt only the slightest absurd disappointment when it was not there: lessened indeed by the pretty sight of Jack climbing up the rigging to the cross-trees. Stephen was inspired to join him, causing gravity, if not disapproval, among the officers and men who helped him grab onto the ropes; clearly they had forgotten how much of an old sea-hand he was by now, Stephen thought with mild irritation and almost missed his step.

"That is never she," he said as he arrived at the cross-trees, panting. He pointed at the exceedingly small ship on the horizon.

"The _Humanité_? Indeed it is, dear Stephen," said Jack, chuckling softly. "Pretty old girl, ain't she? William knows what he's about, and I think monsieur le capitane will not give him much trouble," he added, and Stephen saw him surreptitiously touch the mast as he said this.

Stephen looked out at the vast expanse of sea, still searching for Africa -- surely it should be visible? -- and breathed deeply of the brisk, fresh air. Jack's arm went around his middle: in safety, not in intimacy, but Stephen was pleased by the touch and smiled. "And soon I will see my lemur, I am quite sure. If they reside in Madagascar, it is only to be supposed that they also reside in the Mozambique, is it not? And you did say -- you did _promise_, my dear Jack -- that we would stop in Mozambique during our course through the channel."

"Ah," said Jack in a quiet and awkward tone. Stephen looked at him, not at all pleased by the way Jack shifted his glance to one side.

"You did promise," Stephen murmured.

"Yes, I know I did, and my love, you shall have your lemurs presently, presented to you on gold and ivory plates if you wish it." Jack smiled, but Stephen could sense the coming apology. "However, you see... The dear old _Surprise_ will simply not make it round Africa without we do some refitting. I dare say you remarked it as you came aloft: half our foremast has been taken." He pointed to an obvious gap in the maze below -- an obvious gap Stephen had not heeded earlier. "And I need men, of course. Was another Frenchie like the _Humanité_ to cut athwart our hawse now, well, I should not like to give money on it. I will refit and re-man her, and then, my dear, you shall have your lemurs."

"So we are to go home first," Stephen said quietly, staring at the water around them with the ridiculous feeling that he would see the white cliffs of Dover any moment now. Dover and England and Diana...

Jack's arm tightened around him. "Oh, no, we needn't go so far as that. We're quite close to Madeira, you know. There are some good yards in Madeira, and with luck some Mediterranean brig or Guineaman has just paid off and I can press some prime hands."

Jack patted Stephen's belly with his strong, grasping hand, and after a leisurely interval in the cross-trees, Stephen relaxed: Jack assured him it would not take so very long, and pointed out that if Stephen were worried about any of his cases, he could take them ashore. Stephen thought of Mr Fellowes, Mr Quinn and Mr Napier, and agreed this would be best. They descended together, Jack helping him down.

\-----

They raised Madeira in the late afternoon, and put into the familiar sea-road to Funchal before the sun dropped. Again Jack refused to grant general liberty ashore, but most of the hands understood: the _Surprise_ was now shockingly undermanned. Their more immediate concerns would be answered, anyway, Jack reflected as he went across in the boat with Bonden, Mr Andrews and the reliable men Andrews would take to search for men. Already the bumboats filled with gold-toothed traders, sacks of food and trinkets, bottles, and powdered women were rowing across. Jack rather disliked the bawdy atmosphere attending their arrival -- thought it undignified in a ship in His Majesty's service -- but it was an immemorial custom, and would keep the hands from jumping ship and swimming across for whores and wine. As he thought this, he wondered briefly when he had become such a stuffy old prig, and inwardly laughed at himself as he supposed it had come upon him with the stitching of his captain's epaulettes.

They found ashore a lucky sight: four drunken jacks in straw hats and round jackets gathered around a fiddler and his dancing monkey. One of the hats had not had its ribbon removed -- it was from the _Infamous_, and Jack had not seen that ancient old third-rate lying to in the Funchal roads. Andrews sent a man forth, who reported back with a grinning leer that the _Infamous_ had paid off a third of her compliment. Mr Andrews was a good, reliable man -- well-trained by dear old Heneage, and a capital seaman and officer. Jack sent Bonden back to the _Surprise_ to pick up the doctor and his patients, and left Andrews in charge of gathering up wayward Infamousses, as the poor souls were called.

Jack knew Funchal very well and enjoyed the familiar sights, sounds and most of the smells. After making arrangements for repairs at the accomodating Azevedo yards -- Azevedo Filho remembered Captain Aubrey well, would be most happy to see to the timbers -- Jack made arrangements at the lodging house and found his favourite old taverna. It was completely unchanged, though the serving girl had grown taller, wider and bolder. After a pleasant stroll, he found Stephen in the hospital, speaking Latin with a stooping young man in a physician's wig. They were speaking of Mr Napier's leg -- that much Jack could follow -- but he could not tell from either of them whether the opinion was good or bad. He looked down at Napier sleeping on his little hospital cot and felt sorry for the lad. Would this grievous loss temper his spirits, Jack wondered; would it reform the cruelty that had lurked inside? Perhaps: Jack had known it to happen to other men.

Mr Fellowes looked very grave and much older beneath his bandaged eye. Stephen had saved it, but was not sure it would ever see. Jack considered mentioning Nelson's injury, but Fellowes looked so distant, Jack merely wished him a speedy recovery in as hearty a voice as he could. He moved on to Captain Quinn's cot and was pleased to see Quinn smiling up at him. They spoke briefly -- Quinn's voice was weak, but his manner was not -- before Stephen intervened and sent Jack away to wait. Outside the hospital Jack listened to drunken sailors' songs, the strumming of a guitar, the raised voices of a man and woman quarrelling, and looked up at the moon. Stephen emerged a few minutes later, tucking his spectacles away.

"Doctor Prebescot is satisfied that my removal of the limb was clean. He thinks Napier's weakness is from loss of blood and not from infection. Sure, I hope he is correct. Now," he said, looking at Jack and shaking off some of the heaviness he carried with him when worried for his patients. "You promised me wine."

Jack chuckled and took his elbow and guided him to the taverna, where he had ordered their very best wine and their very best meal -- something with swine's flesh, he was fairly certain, and fish. Stephen ate voraciously -- unusual for Stephen, but he was in a rare mood. Occasionally a shadow would cross his face, and Jack knew his mind was back in the hospital, concerned for his cases. But then he would revive, take another piece of bread and drink another glass of wine. Jack did not notice until they were walking from the taverna just how much Stephen had drunk. By the time they reached their lodgings, he had to hold Stephen, who was asleep on his feet.

"Poor old Stephen," Jack sighed as he took off Stephen's shoes, coat and waistcoat and got him into bed. He watched him in the gentle candlelight for a while: he did not look so stubborn in sleep, for his face softened and he curled on his side. Jack stroked Stephen's hair with the back of his hand, undressed, and climbed into bed beside him.

When Jack woke it was yet dark, but the air wafting through the slatted shutters from the sea bespoke an imminent dawn. Stephen was awake: he was caressing Jack's forearm and fingers. Jack tightened his arm around Stephen's middle and pressed close.

"Where are we?" Stephen asked. "I was asleep before ever I crossed the threshold."

Jack kissed his cheek and said, "We are at Peachy's."

Stephen said nothing for a moment, then: "It is a brothel?"

"Well..." Jack paused, uncertain from Stephen's tone how much he should tell. "Peachy does rent girls as well as rooms, I suppose you could say. But it is not a vile place. It's quite clean, you know."

Stephen gave a low grunt of either disbelief or disapproval -- or both. Jack leaned forward and kissed him slowly and tenderly and said against his lips, "We have the room for two more days."

Stephen turned and responded warmly and perfectly -- all disapproval gone or forgotten -- and was most eager, most roused. He writhed restlessly when Jack did not strip him from his clothes swiftly enough; Jack laughed softly at his impatience; the laugh was silenced then formed into a low moan as Stephen clutched him with his lean, strong limbs and held him fast, wonderfully greedy and demanding. They joined quite quickly, quite fiercely and passionately. When the sun finally filtered through the shutters, they were already resting in each other's arms, and Stephen combed his fingers through Jack's hair.

Jack rubbed his forefinger where Stephen had bitten it. "Like one of your vampires," he murmured, showing Stephen the tiny smear of blood. Stephen took his finger and sucked the tip and smiled lazily at him; Jack felt several waves course through his body and shuddered. He pulled Stephen into a slow deep kiss, and was swimming happily in the taste of Stephen's lips when he heard the door creak. Stephen jerked away, pulling the bedcovers up.

Jack glanced back. "It is only Peachy, my dear," he assured Stephen, then he smiled at Peachy and said, "Good morning."

Peachy grinned and laughed, very jolly, and prattled to them in Portuguese as she opened the shutters and set their breakfast on a little table next to the bed. She was a stout, tall woman with a generous bosom spilling from her camise. Quite dark, with wild curly black hair shot with grey. This Jack noticed with some mild dismay: when he had last seen Peachy, there had been no grey. He tried to remember how many years it had been, but was interrupted by Peachy kissing him -- a very generous, laughing kiss -- and squeezing his upper arm. She trudged off, closing the door behind her: a slow, heavy gait, but with the same round swaying which had stirred many a lustful thought in the minds of British naval officers for a considerable number of years. Jack smiled wistfully -- the smile disappearing when he looked at Stephen, who glared at him with pale eyes.

Jack decided to let the storm come when it may. He sat up and poured the wine and helped himself to the wonderfully warm, fresh bread. When the storm still did not come, he silently offered a glass to Stephen, who took it and gave him a sharp look.

"I do not suppose you know much Portuguese," Stephen said at last.

Jack glanced at him, puzzled, and tore off another piece of bread. "No," he admitted. "Not a lot. Not so much as my Spanish or French."

"Indeed," Stephen said very low, almost a growl. "That woman -- that slattern, that vile slut -- believes I am your fancy boy whom you picked from the gutter, and says that if you will sell me to her, she'll fatten me up for you."

Jack knew it was very wrong and wicked, but before he could stop it, the laugh bubbled up from his belly and shook his body and filled the room. "Oh, Stephen," he said, recovering himself and reaching to touch Stephen's cheek, undaunted by Stephen's furious gaze. "That is only her way: a jest. She saw you were a gentleman last night. Remarked on it. She is teasing."

Stephen relaxed a little and sipped his wine. "A rather vulgar jest, to be sure." In a different tone, a milder tone, he added, "She also remarked how sad it was that the pretty British officers all indulged in the same vice."

Jack frowned and handed Stephen the rest of the bread. "Yes, well," he muttered, sliding under the bedcovers. "Not all her jokes are so very funny."

Jack sipped his wine while Stephen ate his bread, then Stephen stretched across the bed and rested his head on Jack's chest. Jack rubbed his soft hair and side whiskers.

"But tell me," Stephen said, "how came you to bring me here? I will not ask how you came to know Peachy, the creature," he added with a knowing look, and Jack's face flushed with warmth. Then he said, more seriously, "I should be very angry with you -- this is all so terribly foolish and dangerous. How you can have thought to bring me to such a place I cannot imagine. But I find I am quite unable to feel anger or horror at the moment."

Jack stroked Stephen's cheek with his fingertips. "That is all for the better, dear, for I believe the danger is slight. Peachy is very discreet, though you might not think it. And her house is not in the common streets. I only found it because Heneage Dundas knew of it, and how he found it I have never asked." He dipped his thumb in the wine and rubbed it over Stephen's lips. Stephen licked it off and licked his thumb. "The first time I was here with Peachy, there was an admiral and his clerk next door. But you see, it was not his clerk after all; it was devilish hot and all the windows were open, and we could hear them quite plainly. Well, I was shocked," Jack said, smiling at the memory and at his youth, "for the man was an admiral -- I had no idea admirals got up to such things on shore. But Peachy laughed and said it was _amor_, _amor_. One other time there were two lieutenants up the stairs. Although God's my life, I would swear one of them was a woman in a man's slops, for he had such a bosom on him. But, do you see, it is all the same to Peachy, it is all _amor_. So long as the rooms and meals are paid for, it is no matter who's in the bed."

Stephen rubbed the back of his head against Jack's chest. "Money paid is no guarantee of discretion -- frequently quite the opposite -- but in this matter, I will trust your judgment. I perceived no malice or low cunning in the slut... How ever did she come to be called 'Peachy'? It is never Portuguese."

Jack, who knew quite well why she was called Peachy -- was very familiar with her voluptuous body -- said mildly, "I am sure it is because of her sweet nature."

Stephen tilted his head back, and Jack smiled at him. He painted Stephen's lips with wine once more, and Stephen captured his fingers to drink from them. Jack set the glass aside before it fell and spilled: Stephen slid over him, kissing him here and there, tangling his fingers in Jack's hair; and Jack welcomed him and smoothed his hands down Stephen's back and held him. They did not have to be so quick, Jack thought, but his own eagerness and impatience overruled him. He could not contain his great happiness and his great joy when Stephen filled him; afterwards he laughed softly and pulled Stephen into a lazy and blissfully tired kiss, and Stephen smiled at him.

"Two days, you said?" Stephen murmured, kissing his cheek. "Will we ever leave the room, I wonder?"

\-----

They left the room -- once. They dined at Jack's favourite tavern, where they met an old friend of Jack's, Captain Talmadge, who had news from England. No letters, however, and Stephen noted Jack's obvious disappointment. But Talmadge was sure a packet was due any day. Stephen was often bored with Jack's friends -- fine naval men, but with little else of interest besides their shared histories with Jack -- and found his thoughts going to England, then to the ship, then to the hospital. He stood to take his leave of the captains so he could check on his patients, but Jack desired to accompany him, and Talmadge, whose chaplain had cracked his skull during a storm, came with them.

Fellowes was doing well. Prebescot thought he would remove the bandage in a day or two. Mr Quinn was remarkably recovering: a fine, strong spirit in him. He told Jack he was ready to return to action as soon as the _Surprise_ was refitted. Prebescot shook his head at Stephen, and Jack smiled and told Quinn quite convincingly that though he was sure that were so, it was best to listen to the doctors in such matters. "Besides," he added, "you are to return to England, and I will beg a favour of you: to take these letters to my wife and give her word of me." He pulled a small bundle wrapped in oilskin from his coat. Quinn smiled and nodded and said, "I will, sir. Most happily."

Mr Napier looked older than his years, and Stephen was dismayed to see the darkness around his eyes. While he conferred with Prebescot, whose opinion was that the young man might never heal his mind, Stephen observed Jack: alarmed, concerned and troubled. He did not hear what Jack said to Napier, only saw Napier's lack of response and Jack's awkwardly good-humoured farewell. While Stephen checked Napier's leg with Prebescot, Napier said to him, "Doctor, I saw William Pruitt go down during the battle. Did he die?"

Stephen stared at him, unprepared for the question and unable to decipher Napier's dull, emotionless tone. "No, he did not," Stephen said. Napier's eyes flashed something -- it might have been hatred, resentment, fury or even jealousy -- but he said nothing and merely nodded.

They took their leave of Captain Talmadge and Doctor Prebescot and strolled through Funchal under a hazy afternoon sun. Stephen had spent some time here in the past but found he had never ventured into the squalid streets and crooked alleys that led them back to Peachy's inn. They arrived at the end of the washing: Peachy and her whores had covered the inner courtyard with bedsheets, nightgowns and skirts. A small boy was running around, chased by one of the younger girls, who attempted to catch him and tickle him. Peachy watched them with a matronly eye, her arms folded over her bosom.

"My son," she said to Stephen and Jack, nodding at the boy, who had his mother's wild curls but much fairer skin.

Jack paused and looked at the boy with an intense, somewhat anxious curiosity; Stephen patted his elbow and said to him, "His eyes are very dark, my dear -- nearly black."

Up the stairs, into the creaking, high-ceilinged room which retained a certain shabby charm and comfort. There was wine, and the windows were open onto the courtyard, and they sat quite naked in the afternoon heat, drinking and watching the drying bedsheets billow like sails when a breeze would stir. They were in bed when the sun set -- caressing each other in a gentle tangle, lazy, sighing against each other's skin. They fell asleep thus: woven together like Jack's plait, Stephen thought with a smile, and he loosely braided Jack's hair in a private fancy.

When he woke, Jack was deeply asleep. They had left the shutters open, and outside lanterns swayed in the courtyard and girls' laughter trickled up. Stephen rose and closed the shutters, drank some wine, and crawled into bed over Jack. He stroked Jack's back -- broad and firm with the pocks of scars -- and untangled Jack's hair into a long, soft wave. As he stroked lower, idly wondering if Jack would tip the purser's scales at sixteen stone, Jack stirred very temptingly and very insistently underneath his hand.

"Harlot," Stephen whispered in his ear, patting the curve of his great, broad, firm flesh. Jack chuckled into the pillow. "Satyr. Strumpet." Jack made a murmuring noise of pleasure and stirred again, and Stephen found it quite impossible to control his great craving and desire for Jack's inviting, generous warmth and love. Slowly, very slowly, they moved together. Jack's passion and lust and spirit left Stephen breathless as he answered it with all of his strength: slow and tender, becoming swift and sure, then fierce in a brief, brief moment before all was tenderness again. He kissed the back of Jack's neck through his hair; Jack squeezed and kissed his fingers and laughed very softly.

From such slowness, when time had seemed to stop, to the sudden morning and the hours melting away: half-dressed, they grasped each other, kissed, and returned to the bed for a startlingly short time. At hazy noon they left the inn: Stephen returned to the hospital for a final visit with Doctor Prebescot, and Jack returned to the _Surprise_.

When Stephen came aboard, Jack was on the quarterdeck: his coat and hat in trim shape and brushed to perfection by Killick, his clothes neat, his hair tied back in a tight queue. He was praising the work of Mr Lamb, admiring the repairs to the foremast, while around him the officers repeated comments as orders, and the men moved to stow provisions, send final good-byes to the bumboat girls, and ready the _Surprise_ for her departure. Stephen noticed the large group of new men, former hands from the _Infamous_, being reviewed and divided by Mr Andrews and Mr Hollar. As Stephen made his way to the companion-hatch, he overheard one new hand mutter to his neighbour, "Who's this Goldilocks feller? Right tartar, is he? Preachee-floggee, like?"

His neighbour, whom Stephen recognised as a former Helen, sucked on a tooth and said, "Stuff it, you lubberly swine: that's Lucky Jack, he is. I heard tell he's already taken one Frenchie. Reckon we're better here than with them pick-a-pocket girls in Funchal." Stephen took a closer look at the men: he would expect them shortly among the first venereal cases.

Jack's voice rose above the din of men, whistles, ropes and pounding: "Mr Andrews, I believe we may weigh anchor, if you please." Stephen paused to watch the men pushing and straining at the capstan and Jack pacing from railing to railing, examining the sails and speaking to Mr Munro.

The great directed activity all around him filled Stephen with a curious sense of peace, and at its centre was Jack, the living heart of the ship, whose spirit both guided her and was guided by her. And just then this living heart, this abundant spirit, looked over the moving crowded deck, caught Stephen's gaze, and smiled with a great and tender and perfect love.

(the end)


End file.
